husbands, if a maid could come by them.

D. Pedro.
Will you have me, lady?

Beat.
No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days;
your grace is too costly to wear every day: But, I beseech your
grace pardon me. I was born to speak all mirth, and no matter.

D. Pedro.
Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes
you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.

Beat.
No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star
danced, and under that was I born.--Cousins, God give you joy!

Leon.
Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?

Beat.
I cry you mercy, uncle.--By your grace's pardon.

[Exit Beatrice.]

D. Pedro.
By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.

Leon.